"... So chord followed chord, sometimes too fast for my liking, sometimes too loud for my tastes, but, transported by the music, I felt good. And suddenly, without warning, the poet would be laid bare, and alone with nothing except his battered old guitar, or his golden-brown mandoline, his bottleneck-slide in his hand, the troubadour would blow like the wind through his harmonica, and would sing us a melody so sad it made us cry.

At first, it could almost been a joke, but no, Gallagher had opened himself up heart and soul, and I could almost have cried. It went on for ages and yet the crowed still shouted for more ...

I was just twenty-five, and I had all his poetry singing round my head. It seemed like it could never end ...